by Joe Keenan
“How can she hate me so much that she’d make up such dreadful lies?”
Stephen, who, I suspected, knew that the charges were all dead-on, patted her arm and said that jealousy prompted people to do all sorts of strange things.
“What about this one?” asked Sonia, jutting her chins toward Stephen. “What’s she planning to say about him?”
“Mainly,” I replied without a moment’s hesitation, “that he’s conceited and ungrateful.”
“Oh, please!” harrumphed Gina. “He’s the most grateful person you’ll ever meet. I could show you ten interviews where he says he’s the luckiest guy on earth!”
“I think,” said Stephen, “that she means ungrateful to her.”
“Yes. She says she did so much for you when you were growing up, more than your own mother —”
“Lies!” cried Diana, wiping away a nonexistent tear.
“— and now that you’re famous you consider yourself too important to see her or Monty anymore.”
Stephen ruefully conceded that he had, perhaps, been a shade neglectful.
“That’s so like you,” said Gina. “She attacks us and you blame yourself.”
“And that’s all?” asked Sonia, her eyes narrowing.
“That’s all she’s told me,” I said, content that, in the acting department, I was more than holding my own with Diana.
The waiters arrived with our entrees and Stephen took advantage of the distraction to give my thigh a little thank-you squeeze. He, of course, performed this gesture with the utmost discretion and suavity. I, however, unaccustomed to having my thighs fondled by sexy megastars in the presence of their wives and mothers, could not constrain a delighted smirk from erupting briefly on my face. Gilbert alone observed this and shot me a questioning look that I pretended not to see.
When the waiters were gone Sonia fixed me with a glacial stare and said, “What do you think of Lily?”
Given the circumstances I could hardly say that I found her a daft yet sweet old darling and that we were working on a screenplay together. I said that I considered her a vain, bitter woman who lived in a world of her own and relied heavily on drink to sustain her illusions.
“Would you testify to that?” demanded Sonia.
“Excuse me?”
“That she’s a delusional alcoholic? Possibly a danger to herself and others?”
“Sonia,” chided Stephen, “we cannot actually commit Lily just because we’re pissed at her.”
“I’m trying to be creative here!” snapped Sonia.
Gina, who’d lost interest in Lily’s book once it ceased to threaten Stephen, asked if we could talk about something more pleasant. Diana, keen to avoid a more detailed discussion of Lily’s charges, seconded the motion and began chattering inanely about her polenta.
I did not suppose, given the joy I’d spread during the appetizers, that the rest of the meal would be a very jolly affair. I had, however, underestimated the effects of excellent wine and Gilbert’s indefatigable charm. Eager as always to ingratiate himself with the famous, he employed every device he could muster to chase the Malenfants’ blues away. He told jokes, many of these lengthy and well-practiced set pieces, he did impressions (his Maggie Smith, as always, spot-on), and he flattered them shamelessly. The specter of Lily’s memoir did not completely recede but began to seem more and more like a battle that could be waged and won another day and which needn’t further dampen our spirits tonight. The drinks flowed, our laughter grew louder, and by the time the last impossibly dainty cookie had been consumed, an air of tipsy conviviality prevailed. As we rose to leave, I could see from Gilbert’s rapturous smile that he considered the evening an unalloyed triumph.
Two waiters pushed apart the sliding doors, revealing a tableau that was deeply gratifying to both Gilbert and myself. We stood at the center of our little group, flanked by Stephen on one side and Diana and Gina on the other. We watched as diners discreetly nudged companions who hadn’t seen us, then began our stately procession toward the exit, regally ignoring the necks craning and swiveling all around us.
Gilbert suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, clogging our party’s route. I gave him a puzzled glance, and as I did there spread across his face a grin so ecstatic as to make his earlier expression look like that of a small boy watching the final reel of Old Yeller.
“Gilbert?” came an incredulous voice just behind us. I turned toward it.
“Oh, dear God!” I gasped.
For there, just four feet away, dressed in black Prada and seated at a small table too close to the kitchen, was Gilbert’s ex-wife, Moira Finch.
“Stephen,” purred Gilbert, “there’s someone you simply must meet.”
Twelve
FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVE faithfully followed earlier installments of the Cavanaugh Chronicles, the fend Moira Finch requires no introduction; I don’t doubt that any of you currently residing in Los Angeles, on learning that she walks among you, have already laid down this volume, bolted your door, and called small children in from play. I ask those of you whose filesh has already horripilated to Moira’s dark doings to grant me a moment’s indulgence while I throw open the crypt for the newcomers.
A few years back Gilbert, in a move that will surprise no one who’s read this far, decided to get married, his sole motive being to extort lavish wedding gifts from his wealthy stepfamily. He chose Moira as his bride. He was not, even then, particularly fond of her, but her equally prosperous family, combined with her can-do approach to swindling, made her seem a suitable partner for the venture.
Once engaged, Moira revealed herself to be a full-blown sociopath, one whose brazen deceptions and lighthearted treacheries would have made the Borgia girls hang their heads in shame and resolve to try harder. Gilbert and I, his luckless best man, did everything in our power to halt the wedding, but Moira thwarted us at each turn and by the end had maneuvered us into a position of literally mortal peril. Thanks to Claire’s heroic assistance we escaped with our lives (others were less fortunate), and after a decent interval, Gilbert divorced her, vowing to shun her for the rest of his days.
Given their history, Gilbert’s glee at seeing her again might seem puzzling. I knew though that it sprang from the happy fact that she was sitting at a bad table with a stringy-haired female nonentity while he had just emerged from a private dining room, armed to the teeth with movie stars. There are few things as pleasant as rubbing one’s latest triumph into an old enemy’s face, and Gilbert wasted no time in spackling Moira’s with his.
“Moira, my angel! How well you look! It’s been ages! Stephen, Diana, Gina, I’d like you to meet a very dear old friend of mine, Moira Finch.”
Greetings were exchanged. Moira, whose blood has the approximate temperature of a Slurpee, managed not to look nonplussed, but her companion gaped like a goldfish. Moira, noting this, smiled in mortification and introduced her as Deborah, “a colleague.”
“Oh, gosh, hello!” burbled Deb. “You people—I just think you’re so... awesome! Gawd, wait’ll I tell Ma.”
“So, Gilly,” said Moira, preposterously reverting to the endearment she’d employed when feigning affection during their engagement, “what brings you to LA?”
“I’m writing a script for these guys,” he replied with brutal nonchalance.
Not even the frosty corpuscled Moira could conceal her amazement at this. She’d lived with Gilbert for months and knew better than anyone that his words-per-day output seldom exceeded that of a one-armed headstone carver.
“Really?”
“Philip too,” added Gilbert, remembering I was present. “Bobby Spellman read our spec script and recommended us. So what are you up to?”
“This and that,” came her evasive reply.
“Moira’s a movie producer too,” offered Deborah, prompting a subtle but unmistakable wince from Moira.
“Anything we might have seen?” asked Gilbert ruthlessly.
“Not yet. I have a few things in developme
nt. You know how it is. Everything takes ages!”
“And sometimes,” beamed Gilbert, “it all just comes together overnight. So good seeing you again!” he said and, like a cat who knows there’s no more life to be shaken from the mouse, released his limp prey and swept jauntily to the exit. The rest of us bade farewell to the deceased and followed behind. When we reached the sidewalk, we found awaiting us there the sole thing that could have made Gilbert’s stratospheric spirits soar even higher.
“God!” moaned Gina as flashbulbs exploded in our faces. “They always find us.”
Stephen and Diana, long accustomed to such ambushes, took as little notice of the cameras as gazelles in a game preserve. Gilbert, taking his cue from them, affected a bland insouciance as he wished loud good nights to his dear new friends. As I edged forward to take my place in tabloid history, a firm hand gripped my shoulder and yanked me out of camera range.
“Real smart,” hissed Sonia. “You want Lily seeing you in the paper with Diana?”
I sulkily conceded the point and sought shelter behind her suddenly convenient bulk. Diana’s driver pulled up and whisked her into the car just as the valet delivered Stephen’s Porsche. Just before he got in, he turned to where I stood lurking behind Sonia and winked at me.
“Good work!” he called.
“Thank you!” shrieked Gilbert.
My car came next and as I pulled away I noticed Gilbert chatting up a photographer whom he was no doubt advising on the correct spelling of his name.
“WELL, HOW MUCH FUN was that?!” brayed Gilbert as he danced into the house a few minutes behind me. I replied that a good time had indeed been had by all.
“Not by Moira!” he said, collapsing in giggles on the couch. “I ask you, Philip, have you ever in your life seen anyone so thwarted? So thoroughly and magnificently skunked?”
“She was hurting all right.”
“Wait till we tell Claire!”
“Are you crazy? We can’t tell Claire!”
“Why not?” he asked.
“How do we explain why we were out to dinner with Stephen and Diana?”
“Oh, right. We could always say it was a meeting about the script.”
“That she wasn’t invited to?”
Gilbert frowned thoughtfully, then agreed that, as pleasant as it would be to tell Claire how we’d vanquished our ancient foe, it might on balance be wiser to keep mum.
“Oh, and by the way,” he said, his eyes suddenly narrowing to a flinty stare, “what was that business with you and Stephen?”
“What business?” I replied with a yawn, as bed seemed suddenly advisable.
“Oh, please—I show up two minutes early and there you are canoodling in a booth!”
“Oh, that,” I said with a dismissive wave. “We told you. We both got there early and decided to have a drink.”
“It was arranged, ” snapped Gilbert. “It’s why you wanted to go in separate cars... ‘Oh, Gilll -bert,’ ” he mewled in the offensively precious voice he employs when imitating me, “ ‘I have some errands to run before dinner—let’s just meet there, okaaay?’ You were meeting Stephen!”
I was not, of course, about to betray the trust Stephen had placed in me. I held firm, resolutely maintaining that my encounter with Stephen had been pure chance.
“Puh-leeez!” scoffed Gilbert. “I saw you at dinner—that goofy Kansas-in-August grin. Not to mention the way you ladled out tons of dirt about Diana and nothing at all about Saint Stephen. We’re really supposed to believe Lily and Monty haven’t said a word to you about him liking boys?”
“They haven’t.”
“Oh, give it up! I know exactly what happened. Stephen doesn’t want his wife and mom to know what Lily’s got on him. He told you to meet him early so he could warn you to keep your mouth shut— which you did because you’re gaga for him and you have this delusion that if you do what he wants he’ll throw you a fuck.”
It did not surprise me that a boy as blithely devious as Gilbert would so swiftly intuit my arrangement with Stephen, nor that one so lacking in nobler sentiments would characterize it so coarsely. Still, his having guessed the truth placed me under no obligation to concede it. I tossed my head and poured myself a scotch, remarking on the vividness of his imagination.
“Oh, c’mon! I’m right and you know it! I’m not mad, hon—just tell me, okay? What’s Lily said about Stevie that’s got him so nervous?”
“She hasn’t said a word.”
“Well, I like this! Here I am, your oldest friend in the world, and you won’t share the hottest gossip you ever heard! It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone!”
“Oh, right!”
“Then you admit there’s something to tell!”
“I admit nothing!”
“Gawd!” he wailed, hurling a throw pillow at me. “After all we’ve been through how can you possibly be more loyal to him than me! Can’t you see he’s just using you? Honestly, Philip, there are times I think you haven’t the tiniest shred of common sense!”
The doorbell rang and he sprang eagerly to his feet.
“That’ll be Moira!”
“What!” I blurted, passing scotch through my nose.
“I asked her by for a nightcap.”
“Moira?!”
“Yes.”
“You invited her?”
“She came out while I was waiting for my car. She said she had a favor to ask and when could she see us? I said how about now.”
“A FAVOR? Have you lost your mind?! We are not doing any favors for Moira Finch!”
“Of course we’re not,” smirked Gilbert. “We’ll see what she wants, then turn her down flat.”
“If we’re just going to say no, why ask her over in the first place?”
Gilbert knotted his brow, clearly marveling at my inability to grasp the obvious.
“So she can see the house. ”
The Moira whom Gilbert now admitted bore little resemblance to the dazed and defeated wraith we’d left behind at Vici. She’d regrouped and now seemed serene and delighted to see us. Nothing in her demeanor suggested we were anything but the very dearest old friends who’d been apart far too long and were now joyfully reunited. This pose, I knew, stemmed from her native duplicity and need of a favor, but it still made me nervous. Moira is never more dangerous than when she’s being nice.
“What a fantastic house! The views are just spectacular! I love what you’ve done with the inside too. So clean.”
“Actually,” confessed Gilbert, “it’s not ours. Our friend Angus is letting us stay here awhile. Angus Brodie? The actor?”
“You know him? I’m so jealous I could die! This kitchen’s a dream! Is that a Gaggenau?”
Gilbert sweetly offered to give her the tour.
“I would love that!” she declared ecstatically. “God, it’s so good to see you guys!”
When Moira wants something she does not shy from laying it on thick. As she flitted from room to room, she gushed and marveled over every sconce and skylight, carrying on like a Karachi goatherd who’d been snatched from her mud hut and deposited in the Hearst Castle. By the time she’d inquired of a Pottery Barn vase if it was Baccarat or Steuben, I knew that when favor time came she wouldn’t be asking us to feed the cats while she visited Nana. The tour concluded in our office, which jutted out from the second floor and, having glass walls on two sides, afforded the most impressive views.
“So,” she said, running a reverent hand across the cluttered desk, “this is where it all happens!”
“Yes,” replied Gilbert, and I willed him, unsuccessfully, not to add “the nerve center.”
He sat behind the desk, the better to create a tableau in which he was the entrenched Hollywood muck-a-muck and Moira the lowly supplicant. She gazed out at the view for a moment, and when she turned back to us her eyes were suddenly dewy with emotion.
“I am so proud of you two! I mean, I always knew you’d succeed. How could you not with all that talen
t? But Stephen Donato and Diana Malenfant? How great is that?”
“And such nice people too,” said Gilbert.
“Oh, I could tell. So how long have you been writing together?”
“Not too long. Just our spec script and now this.”
“We’re writing it with Claire.” I said this not out of fairness to Claire but as a veiled warning, since Claire’s strategic brilliance had been our most potent weapon against Moira’s vile stratagems when last we’d tangled.
“Claaiirre!” sang Moira fondly, as though they’d not daily wished each other a slow agonizing death. “How is she? Do say hi for me!”
“So,” said Gilbert, “what have you been up to?”
“Where to start?” she said with a jovial laugh. “Well...a little after we last saw each other I decided it was time to shake things up. New places, fresh challenges. So I came out here. I was only going to scope things out, stay maybe a few months, but then I met Albert. Gosh, I so wish you guys could have met him. He produced a ton of great movies from the fifties right up through a few years ago. He was a wonderful guy, kind and smart —a real gentleman. He totally swept me off my feet and the next thing I knew I was Mrs. Albert Schimmel!”
“You’re married?” I said.
“Widowed,” she said, glancing downward to convey that this saddened her. “I knew going in we’d only have so much time. He was a good bit older than me. His lungs were terribly weak and he would keep smoking those darn French cigarettes. Still I knew I’d be grateful for however long we had. Such a mensch.”
“Rich?” asked Gilbert.
“Comfortable.”
“Kids?”
“No. It was his greatest sadness.”
“Not yours I’ll bet.”
“Oh, you, ” she said, playfully swatting his knee. “So anyway, I was a wreck after he died. A complete basket case! But after a while I thought, well I can’t just sit around this big old mansion crying all day. It’s the last thing Albert would have wanted. So I decided to become an independent producer. I rented an office, hired an assistant. I took meetings, optioned some books, made a gazillion phone calls. I’ll be honest, guys, I hustled my ass off and after a whole year —nothing! I had no idea how hard it was to get a little movie made! I mean, maybe I’m naive but I’m amazed how cold people in this town can be. You write them the nicest letters and they don’t even respond! If you’re already a big name they’re sweet as pie, but if you’re just trying to get started, forget it!”